It’s easiest to think of a life with you.
It’s easiest to sit with my thoughts and think of you: talking, looking at me, laughing. To think of you saying something so startlingly honest that I can’t make eye contact when I agree. (This is something you do all of the time, and yet it always surprises me. Your perception always surprises me). I don’t know anyone else with the power to make me nervous like that.
It’s easy to pity my former self for thinking she knew anything about love. It’s easy to laugh at her for not analyzing why you were the one she wanted to talk to on her birthday after working a 12 hour shift. It’s easy to want to reach back in time, to shake her, to lift her chin and shout “LOOK!”
It’s hard to do the apologizing. To admit that I’ve been shitty. It’s hard to let someone love me. (I am the lover, not the loved. To be loved is to be seen: terrifying stuff).
It’s hard to examine my decisions. To notice that I’ve acted out of fear. That I’ve been avoidant and dishonest. That I’ve used the role of nurturer as a distraction disguised as love.
It’s hard to understand that you knew things about me before I knew them myself.
It’s hard to hope that I’m not too late,
it’s hardest to have to leave.